And to read…?

March 26, 2015


Book Collecting….

March 26, 2015


Curse Removal Powder…

March 26, 2015

WitchHave you been cursed?

Not your fault?

Witches for us provide this for you:

“Curse Removal Powder

1. Grind and powder sandalwood, red sandalwood, frankincense, myrrh, pine needles.

2. Burn the powder on lit charcoal, wafting the smoke as needed.

3. Go to a crossroads and scatter the ashes to the winds in all directions, affirming that the curse is lifted.”

Judika Illes
The Elemental Encyclopedia of 5000 Spells

Forms of success…

March 26, 2015



March 26, 2015

(I prefer cats)


I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the colour green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimm’s’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

Wislawa Szymborska


A witch ought never to be frightened in the darkest forest, Granny Weatherwax had once told her, because she should be sure in her soul that the most terrifying thing in the forest was her.

Terry Pratchett


Clayton Claw Cleaver Clementine (Clementine of the three glands, he’s called, because he’s possessed of three testicles) comes from America to take possession of his ancient ancestral castle on the storm-tossed coast of Ireland. Here our lonely protagonist inhabits a closed world, a mad-house occupied by unpaid servants, and booze guzzling guests, and anarchy soon reigns supreme in this Rabelaisian tale of lust and dissipation.

Donleavy makes much use of alliteration and rhyme in describing the many fornications of our hero, Clementine; his careful prose moves between first and third person narration, in a style uniquely the author’s. Yet buyer beware, Donleavy’s book, lacking even a modicum of political correctness (it’s from an earlier, more innocent, more vicious age), is more the product of an adolescent boy’s sexual fantasies, than an attempt to get to grips with the societal problems of the Ireland it depicts.

Donleavy doesn’t do women well. Not here at any rate, he doesn’t. His female characters are either fleshy sex maniacs, craving cock morning, noon, and night; or sad-eyed innocent’s who are dully abused and rogered in ways that would make most feminists weep – if not scream with anger. And who could blame them? These creatures are pure caricatures; they exist to objectify male lust, and are sterile of any true emotion of their own.

Donleavy’s humour is anarchic. Madcap. Absurd. He weaves strands of the traditional Gothic novel into a psychedelic explosion of spiteful sexuality, lust, and fetishistic behavior that both surprises and amuses but in a way that’s slightly embarrassing to the modern reader. What, I have to ask, is the symbolism behind all those bloody snakes?

So, a sample of Donleavy’s prose, at the novel’s opening:

“A cold misty rain descends streaking the windows down an empty shopping street. The university baleful behind its great iron gates, a light in the porter’s lodge, a faint yellow beacon at the end of a street where the massive porticoes of the bank shelter lurking figures on this barren saturday afternoon.

“Two orange beaked swans paddling up stream under an iron foot bridge arching over a river’s sour green waters. At a black door up three stone steps this grey coated gaunt figure looks east and west along the quays. To the slate roof tops and chimney pots puffing smoke over the city. Where a shaft of sunlight spreads, glistens and disappears.”